


To Nowhere and Back

by ofmichifer



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Drug Use, Heavy Angst, Hurt Lucifer, Incest, M/M, Michifer - Freeform, Prostitution, Protective Michael, Sexual Assault, Sibling Incest, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-05-16 03:44:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5812525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofmichifer/pseuds/ofmichifer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael and Lucifer Novak are trying to take care of the family their Father left behind in the best way they can. Lucifer, ever-devoted to Michael however, is still trying to work through his recent realization that Michael may never love him as much as he loves their Father. The problem? Lucifer isn't so sure that he can handle that.</p><p>(If only Lucifer knew that every night, like a ritual, Michael whispers "I love you, Luce," to his ceiling.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For Charlie, whose prompt request turned into something far more than I ever expected.

“Are you seriously fucking leaving _again_?”

Lucifer isn't sure what makes him ask – if it's the way Michael always insists it's only because of their Father, or if it's because Luce has forever known the truth – that Michael isn't afraid of being caught – Michael is simply ashamed.

 _Or_   _it’s because his haste in leaving makes you feel like_ they _do._

(If Lucifer is suddenly hiding a shiver, Michael is, as usual, far too distracted to catch it.)

“You know I can't stay here, Luce.”

“You can. You just choose – time and time again – not to.”

The two brothers haven’t even seen their Father in weeks; it’s almost too common really; the man often disappears into the night with nothing but a note and a sad amount of cash left on the kitchen table. It’s a nice thought that the goddamned useless sack of shit at least considers that his family might want to order a pizza at some point, maybe.

(Or buy groceries, or pay bills, but hey, the eighteen year old won’t discriminate against money when there’s such a lack of it going around.)

Lucifer's reaching over to the side-table even as Michael shifts out of his bed, Luce’s fingers curling around the pack of cigarettes _just_ as Michael sighs.

“It's one-thirty in the morning, Lucifer. Must you insist on ending every day with that disgusting and sinful habit?”

Lucifer, for his part, huffs out a laugh and studies the twenty year old that’s started to get dressed. It’s funny to him, really, that Mikey can lecture him about right and wrong when only an hour or so prior Lucifer had been fucking his groaning older sibling into the mattress.

(Almost always that position because, in truth, Lucifer is constantly sore, though Michael doesn’t notice – Lucifer makes sure of it, has positively  _perfected_ pretending.)

“Watch it, Mikey. This 'disgusting and sinful habit' is what keeps me in a giving mood and gets you laid so often.”

“ _Lucifer_ –”

“Oh, right. I can suck your dick, but Father fucking forbid I talk about it. My –”

“ _Stop it_.”

They stare at each other for a long moment, neither of them making a sound; instead of finishing his previous thoughts, Lucifer flicks his lighter on, setting flame to the cigarette still cradled between his fingers.

Lucifer wants to continue – he wants to rip Michael apart, wants to stare into those green eyes, wants to thread his fingers through the other man’s black hair and pull; he wants to drag his teeth across Michael’s neck and rip off that infuriating silver cross as he tells him, over and over, that he loves him and it _hurts_ when Michael leaves him like this, alone and sad and _sore_.

(Lucifer wants to ask why Michael always cuts these conversations short – wants to ask Michael to say _I love you, too_.)

Lucifer stays silent.

(He takes a long drag and pretends that Michael's shame doesn't make him want to chug some of Ruby's stolen whiskey, which is stashed somewhere in his closet.)

“Get out of my room now, Mike.”

It’s the name that makes Michael pause in the buttoning of his dress shirt – Lucifer _never_ calls him Mike, save for when he’s angry and only seconds away from exploding.

“Luce.” Michael’s voice is softer than it had been – he reaches out and touches Lucifer’s hair, fingers pressing hard into the younger man’s scalp. “Castiel will be up soon, and then he’ll wake the others. I can’t stay.”

It’s a good reason, of course. Neither of them like to think about what would happen if their younger siblings found out about their – well, _special_ sort of relationship. And Castiel, with his new-found nightmares, is up far too early lately for Michael to be lingering in his younger brother’s bed while his own remains empty.

(This has never been a good enough reason for Lucifer though, who sometimes thinks about kissing Michael in the living room with the others all there, secrecy be damned.)

“Stay,” the blonde says, and he can feel, against the skin of his neck, his brother sigh.

Michael kisses him, and for a moment, everything feels better – the lump in his throat dissolves, anger dissipating as Michael’s tongue slides over his own and his fingertips graze his cheeks. And fuck, it feels so good, so _special_ , and Lucifer wishes more than anything that his brother could be like this more often.

“I love you,” he offers, right into Mikey’s red mouth. He leans back into the headboard of his bed, one hand holding his cigarette away from them and the other fisting into his brother’s shirt.

It’s not a surprise that Michael doesn’t say anything back, but there’s an ache in Lucifer’s chest all the same. Sure, Michael kisses him again, pressing tiny pecks to his mouth as his reply, but it’s still not the fucking same.

(It’s still not what Lucifer wants – what he _needs_.)

“Get some sleep,” Michael offers, and Lucifer forces a grin.

“Sure thing, Mikey. You, too.”

His brother smiles, gathering the rest of his clothing, and leaves the room without another word.

(When the door closes behind him, Lucifer takes another drag from his fading cigarette and goes to find the stolen whiskey his body has been screaming for.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the rating and the tags of this fic, folks.

It only takes about an hour for the half-bottle of whiskey to kick in.

Lucifer’s still awake and pacing, plagued with thoughts of how in the world he and Mikey are ever going to have enough money to take care of their household. He often wonders if Michael questions the extra cash that has been left on the table at random lately, or if the man just assumes it’s their Father getting it to them somehow.

(He hates, more than anything, how much unwavering loyalty and _love_ his brother has for their absentee sperm-donor.)

Michael Novak has two jobs – he works nonstop at some marketing company and still finds the time to take his business and religious classes online, having already started some kind of Christian college the year before. Lucifer himself hardly ever shows up to school – he’s in his senior year and finds his classes so alarmingly dull that it’s taxing sitting through them.

(He doesn’t go to school because, in order to be useful, he has to make money – and earning that money makes him too sore for the school’s too-hard seats.)

He works, but Mikey doesn’t know.

Michael, with his eldest sibling and hero complex, had told him to hold off on getting a job early on in the year, ignoring all of Lucifer’s protests.

 _Focus on school, Luce_. _Just focus on that for now._

Lucifer takes another swig of whiskey before dressing himself. It’s the same outfit every time really, with only slight variations – tight as hell pants and a form-fitting shirt. Shoes that aren’t worth too much that can be taken off easily and quickly. His eyes, blue and sharp, flicker to the mirror above his wardrobe.

He looks positively delicious – just what the clients expect from him.

His hands run through his hair, mussing up the dirty-blonde strands so that he doesn’t look too well put-together – he’d learned the hard way that not looking the part frequently meant getting beaten, and he’s not fond of sporting black eyes.

It only takes another moment or so before he grabs his keys and phone and heads out of his room, careful not to let the door make a sound behind him. The rest of the house is still sleeping, he knows; he can hear Michael’s soft snoring through the crack of the man’s bedroom – which is next to his – and as he passes Gabe and Cas’ room down the hall he can hear Gabriel muttering to himself and Castiel’s whistle-like breathing.

When he gets through the front door and locks it, he realizes that he’s warm. The kind of warm that the alcohol provides, which is good, because it helps with the job. It’s only a little past two am and he knows that on a Saturday night he’ll have a lot of business.

The walk is uneventful – three miles of nothing to a dimly lit corner – which, cliché as it might sound, is one of the most popular areas for the city they live in.

When the car pulls up only five minutes later, Lucifer counts it as a victory.

“Hey,” the man inside calls to him, and Lucifer is already smirking.

“Hey cupcake,” he drawls, “How may I be of service?”

Lucifer’s hands are on the man’s rolled down window and he’s leaning in, intent on looking as interested as possible.

“Just get in, faggot. I’ll think of it as we go.”

“Ah, ah, ah –” Lucifer laughs, wagging a finger in the man’s face, “That’s not how I roll. I need a game-plan or you get none of this sweet ass.”

He watches as the man, probably fifty or so, starts to sweat. He’s licking his lips and Lucifer notices that his eyes keep wandering to the small slit in his shirt where part of his abdomen is showing.

“I – ah – I want to fuck you – and –” His eyes, beady and brown with bags under them, suddenly turn to slits, “And you have to suck me off.”

“How original. That’ll be, on a Saturday night, with me – two hundred and forty even. Condom required.”

The John grunts, muttering something about that being steep, but Lucifer smiles, messed blonde hair falling into his youthful face, and pockets the bills before sliding inside to the passenger’s seat.

“Where to?”

The John’s shifty, clearly not used to how this works at all, and Lucifer finds himself sighing. Every wasted minute with this moron is money he isn’t making, and money he can’t give to his brother.

“Look, I don’t have all night here, so if you –”

“Shut up, faggot.”

(It is only due to experience that Lucifer keeps from punching the man square in the face.)

The man pulls the car over to the side and shuts it off, turning to Lucifer and licking his lips again. He adjusts his seat and Lucifer’s ready for the request that he knows will come, already mentally preparing himself for the horrible taste he’s about to deal with.

“Suck – suck me off.”

Cars are always the worst place for this – and though back alleys are probably a close fucking second because of their filthy as hell areas, cars cash in as the worst simply due to the space problem.

His hands move to the man’s pants and he pulls, unbuttoning them and sliding the zipper down with practiced ease. He listens as the man’s breathing goes ragged even before Lucifer’s touching him.

_This will be a damn easy John, then._

The John’s cock is already half-hard beneath his boxers, and Lucifer’s fingers brush the material roughly. He isn’t paid to be tender – this job, this work – it’s not meant to be special.

He wastes no more time in pulling the man’s cock out fully, pumping his hand up and down a few times as the John gasps and leans back into the driver’s seat with shut eyes.

“Get on with it,” the man says, and Lucifer rolls his eyes and leans down only after securing the condom from the dashboard onto the man’s cock.

After only a few minutes, the John is dragging him into the backseat and holding him down. It hurts, of course. Lucifer blows out a breath and hisses against the seat, the man’s hands gripping his neck as he pushes into him hard and without any real preparation.

(Lucifer is thankful that he’d been with Michael only hours ago; those thoughts, however, make his chest burn and so, for these moments, he knows to think of Michael no more.)

It’s sloppy and erratic, no rhythm to it at all, and Lucifer’s fingers fist into the car’s leather seats, his own cock limp between his legs.

Instead of thinking, Lucifer counts – he counts every single second that goes by, angling up to meet the man’s thrusts on instinct only. His mind is blank, a canvas waiting to be painted, but there is nothing in this car that he wants to remember. The alcohol helps – the burn of it takes away some of the sting as the man’s thrusts become more frenzied and careless, tearing at his skin.

Lucifer knows that he’s bleeding.

“Ahh – ahh, yes, there, fuck. That’s it, you slut – ahhh.”

There is a wetness between his thighs and in his ass as the man pulls out of him; Lucifer says nothing more before he’s slipping out of the car and walking back to his corner, where he knows he’ll spend the rest of his night.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, at around seven, Michael is smiling – all of the kids are still in bed and there’s a little more than one thousand dollars on the kitchen table.

“I love you, Father – thank you,” Michael whispers, fingering the silver cross that’s always hanging from his neck.

(Lucifer watches his brother from the hallway and seethes, still bleeding and bruised from the night before.)

“Fuck you, Michael,” he breathes.

_I love you more than anything._


	3. Chapter 3

Class is just as boring as Lucifer remembered.

Of course Ruby and Lilith are sitting on either side of him – providing some relief from Mr. Moron’s constant mumbling – but there’s only so long Lucifer can sit still while passing notes back and forth. He’s still aching from days before, having only shown up because Michael offered to drive him to school. Call him a sap, but he hates skipping class on the days Mikey takes him here, which is such a rare occurrence lately that it’s almost like a treat that makes the pain worth it.

(Sometimes when Michael drives him to school, Lucifer gets to kiss him goodbye.)

“Is there something that you’d like to share with the class, Mr. Novak?”

“Hmm?”

He hadn’t realized that his sudden zone-out had been noticed; Ruby and Lilith are glaring at him, their notes on his desk and on display. Lucifer looks up as Lilith clears her throat – Moron’s right in front of him, a raised brow accompanying a frown that looks so ridiculous Lucifer snorts.

“Nope. Nothing at all – oh, wait – yes, now that I think of it,” he’s grinning, white teeth pulling at his bruised bottom lip before he speaks, “There _is_ something. Your class sucks, your hair dye is fading, and this school is fucking stupid.”

He hears Ruby groan as he’s kicked from the classroom for the second time in one day.

 

* * *

 

“Lucifer, do you seriously _always_ have to get yourself thrown out?”

“I can’t hear you over the sound of me not giving a shit, Lilith – and…” He takes a drag from the joint they’d all rolled, speaking again on his exhale, “You need to loosen the fuck up.”

On other days, Lilith’s fairly laid-back, which is the only reason Lucifer allows himself to be around her. Ruby and Lilith are the only two people at the High School that know more about him than his name and whatever rumored reputation there is floating through the halls on any given week.

“You know, you don’t always have to be such a prick.”

The blonde man quirks a brow, responding only when Lilith starts laughing and blows smoke into his face.

“Oh darling,” he smirks, “I do, though. If you haven’t already noticed, it’s kind of my thing.”

“No need to worry, Lucifer. We’ve noticed.” Ruby chimes in just as the bell rings, and immediately Lucifer is thankful that it’s the end of another dreadful school day. He takes the joint from her and takes one last drag, deep into his lungs, before breathing out and standing up.

“Right – I have a reputation to uphold. Can’t have either of you idiots thinking I’ve turned into a big softie or something.”

“Only a softie for Michael, right?”

Lilith’s giggling – probably joking in that crude way of hers – yet Lucifer turns from both women with a scowl marring his face.

“Watch it, Lilith.”

 “Oh, Lucifer, come off it – we all know that when you get home tonight you’ll just melt into his arms and beg for his kisses–”

“I _said_ –”

“–Or beg for him to fuck you, since you’re such an attention whore for your own–”

_“Quiet!”_

His raised voice is enough to cut through Lilith’s tirade. There’s nobody around near this tree of theirs, yet that doesn’t stop Lucifer’s eyes from darting back and forth in a brief moment of panic. His friends thankfully miss it because he’s turned away from them, hand over his face as he shields his pupils from the sun.

“You fucking _know_ better than to joke about that shit, especially here.”

The girls are high of course, but that doesn’t give them a pass – he’s never been one for quick forgiveness, and he’s certainly not about to start now. He turns to face them again, his cheeks tinged red with unstable rage.

"You're both so fucking stupid when you smoke – I really don't know why I even bother with you–”

“Lucifer–”

“–no, shut the fuck up Lilith, you're being worse than Moron in there. It's like your brains turn to mush and you just become fucking insufferable."

He sees her roll her eyes and that’s what sets him off, more than anything else – he can take the playful teasing when she’s high, but never, _never_ disrespect.

(Never anything about Mikey.)

“Do that again and you won’t have eyes to roll.”

Lucifer is staring at the woman in front of him with no hint of a lie; he’s serious, truly, and willing to cash in on his threat in front of the schoolyard only a little ways away. Lilith watches him and blinks, and Ruby – oblivious to the problem and not understanding the true danger – starts to laugh.

“You’re always a riot to hang out with, Lucifer.”

(On the walk home from school, Lucifer imagines how satisfying it would be to punch in Lilith’s face.)

 

* * *

 

 

“Michael!”

The voice of the eighteen year old only carries so far – but he’s lazy, too lazy to head down the hallway and see if the other man is home when food from the kitchen sounds infinitely better.

“Michael isn’t here.”

It’s Gabriel that answers him, arms folded over his chest as he leans casually against the kitchen’s doorway. “I think he had to deal with some crisis or whatever, because he left in a rush about an hour ago. I guess we owe the bank five thousand bucks or something.”

Gabriel’s only sixteen, but he’s always been observant – oftentimes too much so.

(Lucifer wonders, on certain days, whether or not Gabriel has suspicions about his eldest brothers, and the thought is always enough to make his head spin.)

“I’m sorry – five thousand – what?”

His appetite is lost faster than he even gets to the fridge’s door. There is a reason he pushed himself days ago – with the mortgage late and the family needing to eat, Lucifer had known that a simple thousand would be enough to help ease the weight of everything for Mikey. If this crisis is true though – if they really do owe all this money – well, Lucifer doesn’t know how to handle it.

“Five thousand bucks. I guess something about the house’s mortgage. Cas is upstairs crying because Michael told him to stay in his room while he was on the phone trying to sort it out. I’m babysitting.”

“I still find it ridiculous that we have to babysit a ten year old. I was always by myself at that age.”

“No you weren’t – Mike was always with you, even if you didn’t know it.”

That much, Lucifer concedes, is probably true. The man always did have a habit of showing up right before Lucifer had ever caused any real trouble. Being young and infatuated, he’d simply assumed that Michel must have been magic.

He forces himself to think of the present, a sinking feeling claiming his stomach and starting to burn.

“So what are we going to be doing about the five grand, then? I know Michael is already trying to take care of it, but we’re already behind and facing–”

“ _We_ will do absolutely nothing. Lucifer – my room. Now.”

“Ohhh, Lucifer is getting in trouble…”

(Gabriel is still sing-songing even as Michael leads Lucifer away by the arm, his fingers pressed tightly into his brother’s flesh.)

When the door closes behind them and is securely fastened, Lucifer turns to the eldest and smiles.

“I didn’t even hear you come in, Michael.”

“I have a talent for being quiet.”

“Well, not _always_ quiet–”

“Lucifer…”

Michael blows out a breath, and it’s only then that the younger man takes the time to truly look at his brother. There are purple circles starting to form under his eyes – a complete contrast to how he’d been only days before – and, though Michael will never admit this aloud, his eyes are puffy, and Lucifer can tell he’d cried. “This is not the time, Luce. I need you to understand that we’re actually in trouble here.”

“What kind of trouble, Michael?”

The elder man, for a brief moment, looks more like a young child; his eyes dart about the room and he tries sucking in air, over and over, but no words come and his fingers start to shake. It’s frightening, to see his older brother this way – Michael has always been the sturdy one, the one who has his shit together; Lucifer is the one who is supposed to fall apart.

(Never Michael, who prays every night and tries so hard to be forgiven for both of their sins.)

“Mikey–” Lucifer reaches out, hands encircling Michael’s wrists while his thumbs rub soothing circles against the man’s tanned skin. “What kind of trouble?” He tries again, voice soft as he presses one kiss to his brother’s neck.

“We’re severely behind in the mortgage, and I don’t – I do not know how it happened. Someone in accounting messed up my books and I am – Lucifer, I am sorry, but we could lose the house if I don’t come up with this money by the end of this week. ”

Lucifer can feel his heart beat quickening – as if it’s trying to keep up with his racing mind.

_We need money and we need it fast._

Michael’s hands are on his face and Lucifer distantly realizes he’s being kissed; he kisses back of course, but he’s on auto-pilot, already thinking of a plan to get them all out of this crisis and back into the realm of safety.

_I won’t let him suffer._

There are not many things that will earn him that much cash in only a night; the things that will are all so gruesome that Lucifer can’t even believe he’s considering it.

He’ll need to be with more than one person at once, obviously. He’ll need to be in a higher class area, which is one of the easiest parts since he knows where every stop is and has memorized the clientele for each. He’ll need to be out of school for at least a week afterwards, and will have to bend his own rules for what’s okay and what isn’t.

“I need you now, Luce.”

Michael’s breath is warm against his neck; Lucifer arches, gasping as Michael pulls at his hair and drags his lips down the blonde man’s jaw.

“Of course, Mikey,” he pants, “I’m here.”

(When Michael finally pulls him down into bed, Lucifer holds onto him and swears that he’ll make their problems go away.)

"I'm here," Lucifer says, even when Michael is fast asleep and he's slipping out of their house's front door to save them.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brings with it new tags and trigger warnings. Please re-familiarize yourself with all tags and warnings before continuing on. Thank you.

“It’ll last all night, and there will probably be about twenty-five or so people there. It’ll all be in this house, wherever we see fit at the time. More, less – either way, it’s eight thousand for the night. No limits, but we’ll be safe enough for you – none of us want to catch whatever you might have. Do we have a deal?”

Lucifer looks up at the house in question; it’s huge, with glass windows and Christmas lights already hanging even though it’s only early November. His hands are deep inside his own pockets, fingers flexing around his house keys. Eight thousand divided by twenty-five – it’s higher than his normal rate, but with the added work, and the exclusion of limits, he’s still getting ripped off.

“No – I need more than that for what you’re asking and for how many of you there are.”

The man – Zachariah, he calls himself – sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

“I can go up to ten grand, but that’s the hard limit, bud.”

Lucifer hasn’t seen that much money in ages – not since Father left – and so he nods, his chest painfully tight.

“Fair enough, I guess. I’d like it now, please.”

“Of course.”

There’s a thick stack of green bills handed to him, and for a small second, he smiles.

_We’re going to be okay, Mikey._

“Alright, so. We’re all pretty specific about what we want and when we want it, so I only expect the best out of you. We’re also rough and will take what we want, so be prepared.”

“You’re hiring me for a reason. You know my reputation.”

At this, Zachariah begins laughing, and Lucifer can’t imagine that any of them are going to give him much trouble. Rich men can be condescending, yes, but they’re hardly ever violent enough to warrant a problem – they’re just annoying.

“Your attitude is just how they said it’d be, blondie.”

“Get fucking used to it.”

Lucifer steps from the car and shoves the money into his inside jacket pocket, zipping it up for good measure. The pathway to the house is riddled with bushes and security alarms, and he’s pretty sure that there are security cameras everywhere.

All in all, the typical rich house-party – about to be complete with everyone’s favorite kind of entertainment.

“Go,” Zachariah says behind him, and Lucifer opens the door and steps inside.

 

* * *

 

The first few hours pass in a blur and without much incident; though his body is burning –and though Lucifer’s pretty sure they’ve gotten him drunk with all the glasses he’s been forced to take gulps from – none of them had tried anything crazy and had at least been respectful.

(At the moment however, he’s on the floor, undressed and spread wide for hands that keep grabbing at him.)

“What –”

He starts to speak, but the sentence is cut short by a cock shoved into his mouth with so much force he’s nearly gagging.

His throat is raw by now from the amount of abuse he’s taken tonight – but he keeps thinking about that ten grand in his jacket pocket, and that propels him on.

“Oh, fuck yes…”

There’s someone groaning but Lucifer’s not sure where it’s coming from; according to his last glance upwards, it could be from the guy jacking off or from the man whose cock Lucifer’s currently sucking.

“Hold him down now, boys – and you, pull out of his mouth. I want my space.”

The eighteen year old recognizes the voice as Zachariah’s, and something about the words makes him uneasy. Lucifer shifts, trying to get up off the floor and take some sort of control of the situation, but as soon as he moves there are four men holding him down.

“No can do pal. Be good, remember?”

“ _Fuck_ no.”

Lucifer’s words are spoken to the tiles of the kitchen floor – and then his face is slammed into the cold, again and again, until he’s dizzy and still drunk and there’s blood in his mouth.

His wrists and ankles are pulled and forced to rest against the floor, and though he squirms, struggling and saying “no” through the gurgle of rust and copper, Zachariah only laughs.

“Okay – the boys who aren’t holding him, you can have the top.”

Immediately there are fingers in his hair, pulling and pinching until Lucifer gasps, red liquid spit from his mouth onto white tiles.

“No,” he breathes, because this isn’t safe and he wants no part of it. His words, however, turn to coughing, the blood from his split lip and tongue almost choking him.

Even while he coughs, another man shoves himself between his lips and begins to thrust, someone else holding his hair and forcing his head back so far that Lucifer is certain his neck will snap.

At the same time, he feels more hands – Zachariah’s, he guesses – spreading his legs further with the help of others.

"Please," Lucifer tries to speak again when the cock is briefly removed from his mouth, even as he’s still attempting to get up off the floor and force his legs back together.

(Lucifer distantly hears the group of men laughing.)

“Shut up, faggot. We’ve given you an easy night so far, so be grateful.”

There are too many hands on him as a man forces himself back into his mouth; Lucifer wants to bite down, wants to do anything, but his neck is yanked upwards again as some of his hair is ripped out.

The worst pain comes as he’s gagging; the intrusion of Zachariah thrusting into him – so hard against the floor that Lucifer lets out a groan – burns and tears.

His hair is pulled again, face yanked upwards after someone finishes in his mouth and forces him to swallow.

“Look at me,” they say, and Lucifer shakes his head. “Faggot,” they try again, “Look at me or you’ll regret it.”

Lucifer can’t help himself – even with his body being forced against the tiles every few moments, he laughs, keeping his eyes down and away from the speaking man’s face.

“Don’t you dare threaten _me_.”

Fingers wrap around his throat almost instantaneously; someone kisses him, on the mouth, and that hurts because _kisses_ are for Mikey and Mikey isn’t here, but he can’t breathe and he’s not getting air and there are spots and stars at the edges of his vision.

“St-stop,” he’s struggling to breathe, through being choked and pounded and dimly he registers that he’s not being kissed anymore, but bitten.

“Oh – god, boys – killing the – the mood,” Zachariah’s voice floats to Lucifer through the man’s groans and pants – and Lucifer, face pressed against the floor again, closes his eyes.

Someone tries reaching underneath him, yanking between Lucifer’s legs and trying to coax a reaction out of him – but his body can’t, and so the yanks turn sharp and hard and Lucifer mouths silently, screaming without sound against the icy linoleum.

A man lays next to him and presses their mouth to his, forcing their tongue against the younger man’s even as the yanking continues. Zachariah is still thrusting; Lucifer can feel every rip.

The mouth is pulled away and for that, Lucifer truly is grateful – he feels dirty, and the feeling only gets worse when his head is lifted up yet again for another man’s cock.

Silent screaming turns to audible, muffled sounds when the eighteen year old feels a second intrusion – someone is trying to force their way into him with Zachariah still going.

His words are ruined by the thrusting in his throat, but the yelling – though pulled from him without his consent – comes next.

(Lucifer has never been in this much pain.)

His head is slammed down when he doesn’t stop screaming, and the crack he hears – well, he’s pretty fucking sure that they’ve just broken his nose.

_Or they’ve cracked open your head. You’re going to die here._

There are tears on Lucifer’s cheeks as he gasps for air; the previously white tiles beneath him are all stained red, smudges appearing where his lips mouth Michael’s name – Michael, the man he loves, the man he’ll never see again, the man he’s failed to help.

(Michael, the man who Lucifer will never hear speak the words _I love you, too_. _)_

He thinks he hears multiple men’s groans – they’re finishing then, and soon it’ll be over. He blinks, feeling the burning fade as his vision turns hazy. His fingers claw at the linoleum – a last-ditch effort to shake off the men still holding him down.

“Oh, oh – shit…”

Lucifer feels Zachariah and another man finish inside him before everything goes completely dark.

 

* * *

 

Grass.

Grass is the first thing Lucifer registers as he wakes with a groan, trying to open his eyes.

When he finally does get his eyes open, he sees that it’s still dark, and he’s nowhere near the rich bastard’s house. He’s thankful to be out of there, but he’s dressed only in boxers with his jacket from earlier thrown haphazardly over him. From the landmarks he can make out, he’s somewhere near the corner of 5th and Creed – ten miles or more away from his home.

“Fuck. _Fuck_.”

With every passing moment, the aching in his skull and nose becomes more pronounced – and his ass, _oh hell_ , his ass and throat – it’s like someone set fire to him.

His body turns and he reaches out for his jacket, shaking fingers fumbling with the phone he’d stashed in his right pocket. There’s still battery left, which he silently thanks some fucking being up above for, so he starts to dial.

“Hey, this is Ruby. Leave me a message.”

He hangs up and tries again.

“Yes?”

_Thank fuck._

“Lilith,” he croaks – croaks, because his throat is raw and he can still taste old and new blood on his tongue, “I need – come pick me up.”

“What the hell, Lucifer? It’s three in the morning. Did you go out and get high again?”

“Fuck – Lilith, just – please, get your ass here.”

There’s a sigh on the other end of the line, and Lucifer holds his breath while he waits.

“Lucifer,” she finally speaks, and Lucifer’s breath releases with a huff, “I’m sorry I made a joke about you and Michael. Seriously, okay? I am. But I’m going back to bed now. And for the record? This shit isn’t funny, and we’re even. See you at school tomorrow, boss.”

“Lilith I’m not–”

The line goes dead, and Lucifer has to put his free hand to his head to stop some of the bleeding that’s making him dizzy again.

As he scans the contacts in his phone, he realizes that there’s only one option – only one person that will answer and take him seriously, because he never calls. Ever. All communication between them is face to face or by text. It’s always been easier that way.

It takes a moment, but he finally forces himself to dial, not wanting to die alone on the side of some street corner.

(A part of him hopes that Michael doesn’t answer.)

“Luce?”

There were only two rings, and Michael sounds remarkably alert for someone who should have been sleeping. Forcing himself to swallow and focus – focus, because he always melts when Michael uses his nickname – Lucifer speaks.

“Hey, Michael. I – ah, need some help.”

“What do you need?”

Michael’s voice is sharp, and Lucifer can tell he’s worried. The man’s breathing is too fast, and Lucifer suddenly has the urge to hang up the phone just to take that worry away.

_But you’re selfish and want to see him again, so you have to live._

“I need – Mikey – I need you to pick me up.”

There’s a sigh on the other end of the line, and then some shuffling – he hears the jingling of keys and almost smiles.

“Where are you, Lucifer?”

Exasperation has replaced some of the concern, and he wonders, vaguely, if he really drinks or gets high enough that it’s the only thing people can associate with him.

“The corner of 5th and Creed. And – Michael, can you bring me some clothes please? I seem to ah – have lost them.”

Though Michael doesn’t say anything, Lucifer knows Michael’s already rummaging through his own wardrobe for something Lucifer can wear.

“Okay. Luce – what’s happened? Are you alright?”

The concern is back, softer this time, and that, mixed with the pain, is what makes Lucifer choke.

“I think–” he gasps, throat constricting around sudden panic and hysteria as his vision turns to spots and stars, “I think I’m gonna die here, Mikey.”

There is a sharp intake of breath from his brother over the phone; Lucifer begins to shake, the device falling away from him even as Michael calls out his name.

(When Lucifer starts vomiting, the phone is still left forgotten at his side.)


	5. Chapter 5

The invasive and deafening sirens are what bring Lucifer back to consciousness. The man’s eyes open slowly, blue iris’ glossed over and his breathing labored, aided by a mask covering his nose and mouth – which is, he finds, an incredible nuisance.

Lucifer’s fingers flex as he feels, before anything else, the skin of someone’s thumb rubbing circles against his palm.

“Lucifer? Luce – can you hear me?”

The sirens almost drown out the voice; the blonde man breathes out, blinking several times to clear his blurry vision – it takes only a few seconds for his brother’s form to appear, Mikey’s face pale beneath tousled dark hair.

“I’m not deaf, Michael. So yeah, I hear you.”

It’s not at all comfortable speaking into the oxygen mask, but Lucifer will take it – he’s still lightheaded, the cuts buried beneath his bloodied blonde hair throbbing and making him nauseous.

_Am I in an ambulance?_

There’s a huff of air against his cheek – _Michael’s breath,_ he thinks – and the thumb against Lucifer’s palm pauses in its circular motions.

“What happened to you, Luce?”

The question is quiet, a whisper from lips that are mouthing at Lucifer’s ear; he tries smiling then, swallowing down the bit of blood still clinging to his teeth.

“Oh, hell. You know me, Mikey – always going off to different parties, getting drunk and high and asking for trouble.”

It’s too easy to use the liquor still burning through his blood as an excuse to keep his job – along with his pain – secret.  Lucifer’s not sure why he feels the need to lie, but the truth of what happened tonight is making him feel ill even as he thinks on it; when his fingers flex again, they curl themselves against Michael’s own, though his brother shifts away.

(Lucifer pretends, for the sake of his diminishing calm, not to notice.)

“You went to a party?” The eldest Novak’s soft demeanor is falling to pieces – the man’s voice booms, a roar that nearly makes the younger sibling wince. “Lucifer – you have school in the morning – you have a family to keep safe and to think of! You cannot just keep doing whatever it is that you–”

Lucifer watches as Michael stops himself, anger and tension clear in the way his brother’s back stiffens, and that makes the younger man crazy; it’s so very _Mikey_ to act all self-righteous and pretend it’s for the greater good. In any other circumstance, Lucifer would laugh at his brother’s all-too-obvious anger issues – but there’s nothing funny now, not really, and so he says nothing, taking Michael’s anger and disappointment without a sound even though he wants nothing more than to scream and rip off the mask and wires attached to his aching skin.

 _Not that you_ can _scream at the moment, thanks to those men._

The sirens are the only sound Lucifer can make out as Michael surveys him, green eyes scanning his body which is still strapped to the stretcher. Michael’s jaw is clenched – and yet his face, pale though it may be, gives away nothing more than apathy.

(That is, until Lucifer sees – for just one beautiful moment – something other than indifference on the elder man’s features. It’s gone before the eighteen year old can decipher it though, and the lost opportunity makes the blonde man ache.)

“Lucifer,” Michael finally speaks again, his sudden rage now under control and saving Lucifer from his own head, “This has to stop. Did you start a fight?”

_It’s always my fault, isn’t it?_

“Yes.”

The word is tired, the confession almost muffled completely by the mask still over his face. He watches then, as Michael’s eyes close; he watches as his brother breathes in and counts – probably to ten – before those perfect fucking judgmental eyelids flicker open.

(He watches as Michael pinches his nose, trying to hide his obvious disappointment.)

 “You look awful, Luce. Of course you know this, correct? I had to find you – bloody and bruised in the grass on the side of a street, of all places–” There's a pause as Michael's voice falters, “after you told me you thought you were dying. You could have been killed. People could have taken advantage of you. Why do you do these things, Lucifer? Is it because Father isn’t here? Is it because I can’t –”

“Because I _want_ to. How very _me_ to want to screw everyone over. I’m not the one with the Daddy complex, you know. Get the fuck off of your high horse for just one second Mike, and – hell, just ask the EMTs for some pain meds for me.”

It’s a rare kind of blessing that Michael doesn’t respond – yet Lucifer sees the small tick of his brother’s jaw, and for a second he almost regrets being so harsh.

(Almost.)

“Can’t I get _something_ for this fucking pain?”  

The question is more for the damned EMTs; he doesn’t know, can’t know, that his words are now coming out slowly, thickly as if caught in his throat. He does realize, however, that his vision is going hazy again, sounds and sirens echoing and making his head pulse harder with every second. Somewhere through the haze, while his eyes open and shut with harsh breaths, he hears Michael barking out some kind of orders, which prompts someone to mess around with his IV, but then there’s relief.

Medicine.

“I just want you to do what’s right, Lucifer. To be good. To control yourself.”

Lucifer probably isn’t meant to hear those whispers, but hear he does.

(It crosses his mind that if there weren’t a mask on his face – if his body wasn’t fighting for consciousness against the new drugs – he’d probably be laughing.)

Michael’s infatuation with God, with their Father – with _sin_ – well, Lucifer thinks it _is_ entirely laughable. In fact, the eighteen year old is often curious about his brother’s viewpoints that aren’t copy-pasted from the bible. It’s because of that damned book – and Lucifer himself – that Michael is always struggling with a disappointment that burns him alive.

Lucifer knows that he never really does what he’s told, or what is asked of him. He misbehaves, or whatever that means anymore.

He tries though, and sometimes wishes that Michael could see that.

( _Always_ wishes, never receives.)

Lucifer’s tired now. Whatever medicine given to him is doing the trick, and any snarky reply he’d finally managed to think of for Michael dissolves into Lucifer’s drowsiness and pain.

“Mikey–”

His brother’s name is the only word he can manage before the doors of the ambulance open; he lets himself drift off when Michael takes his hand.

* * *

 

The doctors are refusing to give him any straight answers.

“For the last time, Lucifer is in _my_ care. What is the extent of his injuries, and how did this happen?”

Rage is far easier than fright – Michael Novak learned that long ago.

(Rage chases away the vulnerability.)

“Mr. Novak, he should be awake soon. And – I’m sorry, but without your Father’s approval, we shouldn’t–”

“–My _Father’s_ approval?”

Michael’s tone drips ice, his green eyes narrowing while he speaks. The doctor backs up, towards the wall as Michael continues to step forward until their faces are only inches apart. “Look around you, doctor. What do you see?” Bitterness is on his tongue, marring his face for a fraction of an instant before his fingers find the smaller man’s shoulders, digging harshly into a white coat. “We haven’t seen our _Father_ in nearly a year. If you have information – any information whatsoever – about Lucifer’s condition, and how it came to be, you are to release that information to me. He is in _my_ care. Am I understood?”

The redheaded doctor – Evan, Michael reads, off of the ID near his fingers, – is swallowing, nodding profusely all while Michael’s face, though red, remains perfectly calm. Evan’s mouth opens twice, then three times, before sound finally forces itself out.

“Sir – I – yes. I understand.”

“Then speak.”

Evan does, and as words like _fractures_ and _prostitution_ and _rape_ tumble from his quivering mouth, Michael’s grip on the man’s shoulders only ever turns harsher.


End file.
